St Elsewhere
by crackberries
Summary: Misery loves company and he finds his in the form of a hitch hiker he picks up early one morning.
1. 6:00

Name comes from the Gnarls Barkley album/song. I know that Erik wasn't any of Norway's suggested human names but I love that name too much.

**warnings: **AU, and I think some OOC because it's the first time writing a fic that centers with them and I decided to throw them into an AU cos I'm smart

* * *

**06:00  
**

* * *

He's not going to try and mask it.

It's not jealousy. Not frustration. It's not even "artistic differences" as someone had so carefully put it early last night.

It's anger.

Pure anger running through his head, and probably feeding his day old stubble as he drives down the country road at 6 AM, alone on the road save for the red pickup driving a hundred or so meters down.

By all means, he should not even be here. He is supposed to be either fast asleep in a dingy and dusty motel or still out at a bar. He is not supposed to be driving from Quebec City back to St. Catharines in his black beat-up Ford, his gear crammed in wherever he can fit it. There is a rather large stuffed toy sitting upon one of his guitar cases in the backseat, a fat red-headed viking (horned helmet and all) he has lovingly named Olaf and has been using as a good luck charm since he was four. Olaf is glaring at him through the rear view mirror with his one remaining eye, as if saying there is not only one person upset at being kicked out of something that had been beautiful.

The grey morning fog obscures his vision as he drives, leaving only some of the road and the bright tail lights of the pickup visible. The fog is slightly thicker than usual and he can tell that the day ahead is not promising.

Pathetic fallacy. That's what Arthur would call it. Arthur always has a word or a term for everything.

Crisis. Catharsis. Dénouement.

Words too fucking fancy to be used to kick someone out of a band they helped create, but used none the less. Sometimes he wonders whether Arthur wants to be a singer or a high school English teacher, what with the man constantly blithering on about proper grammar and his god damned love for literary devices and applying it to every bloody stage of his life. Even when they are out drunk.

He double checks the small stack of printed out maps, making sure his going the right way down Backwater Road, Shitsville. Such bitterness doesn't seem suitable to his otherwise loud and obnoxious personality, but he is alone in the car. He supposes can be himself.

Ten hours. Ten hours he drove from home to Quebec City. He didn't go with the rest of the band and their motley crew; he was in jail overnight so he had to leave a day later than everyone else. He took his sputtering car all the way to Quebec City because he _thought _he was going to spend a week in the area playing shows. He definitely did not drive ten fucking hours to get kicked out of his own band.

Artistic differences. Personality clashes. Different opinions. Moving on.

Christ, they aren't even _famous _enough to be using those words and phrases on him. Who the hell do they think they are?

Thankfully, Alfred saved them the trouble of skirting around the trouble, and had said it in a blunt enough manner.

_"We just can't work with you anymore, bro. It's what's best for the band."_

What does Alfred know anyways? He's just a burger-chomping drummer. Everyone knows drummers don't know shit. Or bassists for the matter of fact because as he had been throwing his duffel bag back into his already crowded trunk, he could hear Gilbert assuring Arthur that guitarists are a dime a dozen, and they'd find a replacement. No problem.

He snorts. They are going to be _nothing _without him. Really.

And that has been what has been comforting him ever since he left. He doesn't even know why he left so early. They had told him to stay until later on in the morning, so they could give him things they owed, and maybe rub some more salt into the wound. His car had been packed since the night before when they had told him their decision, so he had slipped out while they were still all asleep.

He'd show those bastards. He'd show them by coming back with something bigger, something better, and while they would be playing in some tiny biker bar out in the sticks, he'd be killing it in the big arena. Amphitheatre. Big festivals. He'd show them not to kick out the best guitarist they'd probably ever have-

Suddenly, the red pickup seems much too close and he slams down on the brakes. His eyes have gone from tired and bleary back to their energetic blue. His car swerves, spins slightly, but comes to a merciful stop with a screech, taking up both lanes on the road. Out of his peripheral, he sees the truck speed away, and curses the driver to eternal damnation. Or something like that.

He rubs his forehead. It's too early in the morning.

It's then that he catches the eye of someone who has appeared to be knocked over by the commotion. A blond in a navy blue rain jacket is flat on his ass on the road, looking extremely angry. He reaches across to his passenger side and rolls down his window.

"Yo, kid!" He calls out, even though he guesses the person is maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, his own age. "Are you okay?"

The scrunched up face immediately smooths out and it has been one of the fastest change of expression from agitated to stoic that he has seen in a long time, not since he used to butt heads with that Berwald guy back in high school.

"I'm alright." Comes the reply, and even though the area around them is relatively silent, he still has to strain to hear. The blond gets up, brushing off his grey jeans and straightening out his rain jacket. As he picks up a slightly worn out backpack, something clicks.

"Hey blondie!"

"Yes?"

"Want a ride?" the words are out of his mouth before he can think them over. The stranger raises an eyebrow, but slowly walks over to the passenger side and looks through the open window.

"Christensen. Call me Chris." He introduces himself to the stranger.

"Erikson."

"Like the Lief? Isn't that a last name?"

The blond is not impressed by the poor joke. "Call me Erik. Isn't Christensen a last name?"

"Alright, Erik," Chris chuckled. "Where are ya headin'?"

When he blinks, he misses the way stranger's eyes flicker to the stack of papers on the passenger seat.

"St. Catharines." Erik replies evenly, and Chris gives half of what would have been a beaming smile in any other circumstance.

"Well, ya don't say."

He does not know why he has let the stranger buckle up, moving the paper maps into the glove compartment. Under any other circumstances, he would find it slightly shifty and it would feel like a set up for a cheesy horror movie.

But right now, he is pissed at his friends, his situation, life, something along those lines.

So he figures he could use some company.

* * *

St. Catharines is in Ontario, near Niagra Falls and Quebec City is in..Quebec. I was gonna put this in Denmark or Norway and make it some epic roadtrips but I like driving down lame roads because I am a lame person and the trip actually does take around ten hours, at least for me.

On a random note, I was traumatized in the second grade when I learned that vikings actually didn't have horns on their helmets.

thoughts + reviews really appreciated

and yup, fully aware that the name Christensen and Erikson are last names. Christensen was one of the names that were considered for Denmark and while I know it's a surname, I like it rather much and I know some who have it at a first name so I just took some (blatant) liberty. And as for the name Erikson...you'll see eventually.


	2. 6:38

**06:38  
**

* * *

Though his friends like to sometimes call him somewhat of a complete idiot, they cannot say he is not observant. Because the first thing Chris does whenever meeting someone new is notice.

He sees the slight crinkle in Erik's nose as he first steps into the admittedly messy car, and the look he gives Chris' ripped black jeans and tattered red wind beater. As they begin to drive down the same long stretch of country road, he observes how quiet Erik is, face blank save for a small line in his forehead, as if he is constantly in a state of worry or irritation. And he notes the look of uncertainty hiding behind those dull blue eyes, always looking at the road ahead. Gilbert calls this ability to notice and remember a stalker skill; he would rather refer to it as acute observation, since this is something he does with everyone.

"Car break down?" he asks, and Erik makes a non-committal noise. So far, all Erik has told him is that he was walking down the otherwise deserted road, and that the driver of the truck hadn't seen him.

With the company he keeps, Chris is used to talking. He's used to noise. This lack of volume is disconcerting, so he makes for idle conversation.

"I'm coming from Quebec City. What about you?

"Trois-Rivières." Comes the clipped reply.

"It's a coincidence, ain't it?" he continues, talking more to himself than the other. "We're both heading to the same place. What are the chances of finding someone who's going to the same town?"

"One in a million." Erik replies. Chris does a slight double take at the sarcasm evident in Erik's voice, but chooses to ignore it.

"Ya know, I was still supposed to be in Quebec City. Was gonna play a few shows."

Erik doesn't reply.

"But what do you know. Didn't work out."

"Why?"

That is the first question he has heard from Erik, because for the past half an hour they have been driving, he has been the only social one. He steals a quick glance at the other, who is still fixated on the road ahead. They have been on lone roads for a long time, and will probably continue to do so for the next hour or so.

"I got kicked out." He says casually, taking one hand off the steering wheel and running it through his ashy-blond hair. Like usual, it is slightly wild and is sticking out, but he suddenly feels self-conscious. "Uh, I got kicked out of my band."

This time, it is Erik's turn to look. He does not try and cover up that he is looking at him. He just stares.

"Why?" Erik repeats.

"They couldn't handle the amazing skill I had." He follows his own reply with a fake laugh. "So they waited 'til I drove all the way up to Quebec, and then broke the news."

"Sucks."

"You're telling me."

Strangely enough, this stranger is the first person that he has told about this life-changing event. He hasn't even called his mother to let her know that the band he skipped post-secondary education and a chance at a decent 9 to 5 for has kicked him out.

"What instrument do you play?"

Three questions in a row. Shit. At this rate, they were going to be best friends.

"Guitar," he says, gesturing to the back seat. He almost tells Erik to say hi to Olaf but uses his better judgement and stays quiet on the matter. "Dime a dozen, I know." _Trust me, I've been told._

"You don't say." Again, the sarcasm is there in Erik's voice. Chris assumes that Erik seems like the type that will get irritated over any little thing, whether it be the half broken pine freshner hanging from his rearview mirror or the mess of papers underneath the passenger seat. To him, Erik almost seems a little aloof.

After that, the two lapse back into the silence. Five minutes later, and Chris is again frustrated at the lack of noise. Instead of starting another weak conversation, he decides some music is in order.

"Hey, wanna put something on?" he asks. "There's a bunch of CDs in the glove compartment."

Not surprisingly, Erik opens the compartment without a word.

"I have some Pantera, Iron Maiden, Dream Theatre. Or if you're into some other stuff, I have Billy Talent, Radiohead. Abba? Madonna?"

Erik is sifting through the CDs and Chris knows he really doesn't need to be telling what music he has because Erik can see for himself. Maybe what the others say is true, and he just likes to hear himself talk.

"I also have foreign stuff if you're into that. Russian folk, some Indian music, and I'm pretty sure one of my friends snuck a Norwegian death metal band in there."

Erik's lips slightly quirk up at the last mention, but it goes as soon as it comes.

"I'm Norwegian." Erik says, and Chris grins.

"Really? I'm Danish. We're neighbours, yeah?" he says, with a little too much forced enthusiasm, and like expected, Erik doesn't say a word. Instead, he slides in a CD.

Looking at Erik's dark grey skinnies and the silver cross holding back some of his shaggy blond hair, Chris does not expect the Wu-Tang Clan to start blasting.

"Interesting taste." He comments, and Erik shrugs.

"Your CD."

Seeing Erik has a point, he returns his attention back to the road. He looks at the clock, and it reads almost seven. A green road sign passes by, saying there is a diner and a gas station twenty-five kilometres ahead.

"Want some coffee?" he looks over to Erik, and the blond shakes his head.

"Not at all."

For some odd reason, Chris feels slightly bitter over the reply. He wants coffee, but does not want to pull over if Erik does not want to, purely because Erik seems like the person who will not hesitate to give him a hard time if he does.

"Why, have no money?" Before he can catch it, like many other things he says, the question runs out of his mouth. It earns him a glare from his passenger.

"No." Erik replies, curt. "I do. I just don't want any coffee."

"Well, I'm going to stop over for some, alright?"

"You do that."

He hasn't really picked up hitchhikers before, but he is sure that if he did, Erik would still be one of the coldest ones he'd pick up. And according to the car clock, it has only been little under an hour since he picked up the blond. To be honest, Chris' impression of Erik at the moment is that he is a slight bit of a dick. But that's okay, because he has been told time and time again that he himself is one of the biggest dicks out there.

But maybe he's just jumping to conclusions and overreacting because the kid doesn't like coffee.

Then it occurs to him that Erik still hasn't told him anything about himself aside from that he is from Trois-Rivières, is going to St. Catharines, and almost got hit by a red pickup earlier today. At least Erik knows why Chris is going where he is, so Chris figures he deserves the same.

"Why are you going to St. Catharines?" He asks, the question rather blunt. Erik merely shrugs.

"Got someone there that I can stay with." He says, causing Chris to raise an eyebrow.

"Going to your girlfriend's?"

A look flashes across Erik's face. "No."

"Ahh. Going away from a girlfriend? Ya leave her pregnant?"

Erik snorts, and Chris gets a faint feeling that there is more absurdity behind his comment than the other will let on.

"Then did you run away?" He asks in part jest, because if the kid is really his age, he wouldn't really be running away, technically. But because he has a habit of asking the wrong type of questions, he watches as Erik's lips purse. There is a long ten seconds of silence, and then-

"Coffee sounds good."

* * *

I'm trying to keep a somewhat regular update time with this story, unlike all my other ones |D

Reviews really appreciated!


	3. 7:09

**7:09**

* * *

They pull over at a few past seven, and the sun is still not out, spelling rain for the cool July day. The gas station and the diner share the same pallid and small building and Chris feels a slight sense of familiarity that he cannot place. He figures that because he has traveled all over this province, he's been here before.

Erik is already undoing his seatbelt as the car sputters to a stop near the entrance to the diner. After unbuckling himself, Chris digs into one of his jacket pockets and retrieves a pack of Lucky Strikes.

"Want?" He asks, offering the box towards Erik but the other shakes his head.

"I don't smoke."

Neither does Chris really, but it has always proved for a good stress reliever. Erik pulls his hood over his head as he steps out and goes into the diner. Chris stays outside, leaning against the strip of grey concrete wall between the door and the large dirty window.

He lights up and coughs slightly at the first inhale, but after that it's smooth sailing. He watches as darker clouds slowly roll in, and hopes that Erik remembers to order his black with two sugars and milk. He glances through the window and sees Erik at the counter with the faceless cashier, and two white cups sitting beside him. He turns back to watching the clouds forming, both from his mouth and in the sky.

It then dawns on him that he has driven down a stretch of empty road with a complete stranger in his passenger seat. Alfred would love hearing about this (not like they're going to be on speaking terms now but anyways) and would love imagining possible situations where Chris would have gotten maimed and/or tortured by Erik because even though Alfred pisses himself every time he watches a horror movie, they are still his religion.

Just like music, as prepubescent as it may sound, was Chris' religion, until he was excommunicated. Excommunicated by the church he fuckin' _owned_.

Well now _that_ was a bit of a dramatic exaggeration. It was Chris and Arthur who, after multiple other failed projects, decided to band together to make a band. Arthur had come up with a logo and a bassist, while Chris created the name and roped in the drummer. They had started off wobbly, but soon gathered a small following in St. Catherine's and the following arena, then Toronto. Having graduated from playing shady clubs and run down bars

-which they will go back to playing now that they've kicked Chris out, he's sure-

they were recently getting bigger and bigger gigs. And they were getting a decent bit of attention, hence the stint in Quebec playing better clubs and venues. And they had been making a decent amount of money. And they will continue to (hopefully not) do so, even without Chris.

Oh, but he'll pull through. He's the type that always pulls through, always with a big grin on his face, alcohol induced or not. Loud, obnoxious Chris without a care in the world, always pulling through.

A second cigarette seems going right about now. He's only really been a social smoker, and he leaves the heavy duty to Arthur and Gilbert. But now's as good a time to start as any.

He sees Erik passing cash at the counter, and carrying the two cups to a small booth near the window.

Huh. Did Erik pay for him? But Chris had forgotten to give him money, and Erik had disappeared into the diner before he could call out and tell him. Was Erik paying for him?

No, probably not. He probably just told the person at cash that Chris would pay when he came in.

Erik looks out the window, and their eyes briefly meet. Erik then looks down at his coffee, his expression still blank, and starts to open a sugar packet.

Bitterness and anger hasn't calmed down with Chris. He has a tendency to hold grudges against people. If someone punched out his lights three years ago and he meets them on the street again, he will not hesitate to punch theirs out. He is sure that the next time he meets Arthur, Alfred, and Gilbert he'll end up having to go to jail again.

Erik doesn't look like the type who would poison him. Maybe choke him with sarcasm and pretentiousness that Chris is sure is just bubbling under those dull blue eyes, but he is sure his coffee is safe with the other.

Come to think of it, Erik slightly reminds him of his old friend Tino. Aside from being blond and slightly on the shorter side, Chris thinks that stone-faced Erik with his clipped answers that he has known for a grand total of a little over an hour, is more aggressive than he's let on. Chris may not be the master judge of character, but he figures he can read people well enough.

Maybe Erik has slipped something into his drink.

A drop of rain lands on his nose. The clouds have moved in.

_That was fast._

Stomping the butt of his cigarette under his worn out combat boots, he heads into the diner, having had his fair share of bitter thoughts. For now, he just hopes that Erik hasn't slipped something into his coffee and wonders where that slightly nagging familiarity is coming from.

* * *

It turns out Erik hasn't poisoned his coffee, because he has drained half the coffee within the first five minutes of entering the diner and he is not foaming at the mouth yet. When the cashier comes back from the kitchen (that's what Erik has told him) he'll have to order more.

The rain has started to pour, and the sound of it is the only thing reverberating through the diner. The diner is barely lit, and the blues and greys from outside washes over the faces of both men.

"Some weather." Chris comments, as he traces a finger around the rim of his porcelain cup.

"I don't mind it. It's kind of peaceful."

"Yeah, but you're not driving."

Erik's lips quirk a bit again at the comment.

"I can drive for some time if you want. I have my license with me."

"Nah, it's okay. I'll make it."

Chris is functioning on little sleep and a lot of emotion, but that's not enough to make him hand over his keys to a stranger. His stomach grumbles loudly and he gives a small laugh.

"Haven't had shit to eat since early last night." He explains. "I'm going to go order some food, alright? Want anything?"

Erik shakes his head, so Chris gets up and goes to the counter. There is a silver bell on the counter, and since the cashier is still M.I.A, he hits it. And hits it. And hits it again and again until a highly irritated "I'm coming!" floats in through the door leading into the kitchen. He turns his head and gives a grin to Erik who rolls his eyes. He taps his fingers on the counter and hums as he waits.

As he sees the cashier come out through the dark wooden door, he knows for sure that he has been here before. In the dim light, the name tag reads Lars V., confirming that he has definitely seen the tall man behind the counter before.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Lars?"

"...Yes?"

"It's me, dude. Chris, high school, guitarist, your band?"

Lars' brow furrows for a second, then smoothens out.

"Sorry, Chris. It's been a long time."

Lars still spikes his dirty blond hair up in the same way he did when they were in high school, and Chris thinks the look probably gets more girls now with those vampire movies out.

"How's it been?" Chris asks, words slightly awkward because he has not seen this man in six years and the last time they were on friendly terms was even further back in time, when he was a sophomore in high school and Lars had come back for a second senior year and they were guitarists in the same band.

"Alright." Lars shrugs. "I have a 'real' job now."

In high school, they and their band at the time had driven up to Quebec to play at someone's rich cousin's birthday party. It had been their first gig where they were getting paid more than they were spending and en route they had stopped by this very diner, owned by Lars' uncle.

"They want me to take over it. As if I'd want a shit job." Lars had scoffed, and everyone laughed. "Especially when we'll be out killing it on stage, right boys?"

Of course, like most high school bands, theirs hadn't lasted and Lars had moved on to a "better" band. Last Chris head, they had been doing pretty well.

"What happened?" Chris asks, and Lars sighs.

"Life, I guess. We never went past the local level and had to break up."

Chris says nothing, Lars continues.

"And I couldn't find any work, in a band or at a normal job. So here I am, working my uncle's diner."

The tone in Lars' voice tells Chris that they will not be delving any deeper into the subject.

"I got kicked out of my band." Chris offers, and Lars shrugs again. "Life's short."

"We're only in our twenties."

"Sure as hell doesn't feel like it."

Chris then looks at Lars._ Looks_ at him and Lars suddenly seems much older than his twenty-seven years. His hazel eyes have lost their wicked glint and have slight hints of crow's feet around them. Lars' scar seems fresher, as if it had reopened recently. If Chris looks closely, he can see grey strands of hair peeking through the spikes.

"So are you going to order or just stand there and stare?"

"Well you _are_ beautiful." Chris says, and Lars rolls his eyes. "But I think I'll have one of those breakfast specials."

"Right on it."

Lars disappears into the kitchen and Chris' smile falters because it's hard to hide the fear at seeing something of a reflection of himself in Lars.

* * *

I feel bad for making these guys such failures but hey, that's life.

Reviews like always are really appreciated :D


	4. 7:23

**07:23**

* * *

"You seemed to know him." Erik says as Chris sits down with a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast, complete with a plastic cup of orange juice. Chris nods, unwrapping his knife and fork from the napkin.

"High school friend of mine. We go way back."

Erik looks over to the counter, taking in the dirty bright orange shirt and what may just be a joint stuck behind Lars' ear.

"Classy company."

Chris lets it slide, because Erik is not the first one to say that.

"I'm dinin' here with you, aren't I?"

Erik takes the hint and doesn't mention Lars again. He watches as Chris starts to shovel in food, some crumbs falling onto the dark brown table. He wrinkles his nose slightly at the show and decides to direct his attention outside, watching the rain beat down on Chris' rusty car.

"So why ya here?" Chris says through a mouthful of eggs, and Erik turns back to him.

"Because you wanted coffee?"

"Funny."

"But true."

"I meant the reason why you were walking down nowhere so early in the morning."

"Same reason you were going down the same road."

The same way he looked at Lars, he looks at Erik. But he cannot find any indicator of hardship on Erik's face, just smooth, pale skin. There is no indicator of anything, really. No zit marks, no faint laugh lines, and he doesn't even look like he needs to shave.

He is about to open his mouth and ask what exactly that reason is but Erik cuts him off before he can even speak.

"So, why were you kicked out of your band?" he asks.

Chris blinks. He debates answering that question; after all it is a bit personal and Erik has been giving cryptic answers to _his_ questions. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lars wiping down the counters, and he is almost sure that the lead guitarist turned diner-worker is wearing a forlorn look.

"Artistic differences."

"Bullshit." Erik snorts, and Chris raises his eyebrows.

"Sorry, what?"

"Artistic differences. Biggest bullshit excuse I've ever heard and I've done group work with art exhibitions before. Usually it's a subtle way of telling you you're a stuck up jerk."

Chris does not know whether to be more surprised at the fact that this has been the longest thing he's heard out of the other's mouth, or that he's actually just learned something about the man sitting on the red seat across the table.

He does not let the surprise show on the outside; he just smiles in agreement.

"They thought I was starting to control the group too much."

"Yeah?"

"Well, no. What they actually said was that there were too many 'clashing opinions' but that's what they meant because all of them followed Arthur's ideas and I was the only one to say no."

Erik doesn't bother asking who Arthur is. Chris knows he probably doesn't care.

"Ah."

And they are back to clipped conversation, courtesy of Erikson, not like the Leif. But for some reason, Chris wants to continue to talk. Maybe it always goes back to him just liking to hear himself speak.

"And of course, they want to steer the band in a new direction, which I didn't agree with. I mean, what we had got us so far and was going to take us places, so why would we have to change? What's the point?"

Erik opens his mouth to say something, but closes it and Chris plods on.

"And they also said I was too controlling. Said that I bossed them around too much, said I tried to run the band all by myself."

"And did you?"

"Of course not!" Chris exclaims rather loudly, and Erik leans slightly back into his seat.

Chris spears a piece of bacon rather aggressively, and points the fork towards Erik.

"I only wanted what was best for the band, what was best for us."

"I believe you." Erik says, raising both hands slightly. There is no movement for a second, and then Chris puts down his fork.

"Sorry 'bout that man." He mutters, honestly. "Still has me pissed off."

"I can tell."

"I mean, I got booted out. Just like that." Chris knows he is blabbering on, but even though Erik's face seems to be perpetually blank, the blond seems to be listening.

"I helped create the goddamned band. I even gave it the goddamned name. And they kicked me out."

"Painful."

"Your best friend...friends, doing that is like your own blood betraying you. Hurts a might shit load and is hard as fuck to fix. And it doesn't feel like it's worth the effort."

And then Erik's face softens. A hand of his hesitantly reaches up, and for a fleeting second, Chris thinks that Erik is actually going to reach out and grasp his hand. Instead, Erik rests his hand weakly on the table beside his own cup of coffee.

"I know." He says quietly.

Chris nods, then looks out the window to his car, suddenly wanting to change the topic because all this talk has started to make him think about what the hell he'll be doing in life now. A new band? Join an existing one? Maybe, but which band will be looking for a guitarist? As Gilbert said, people of his kind are a dime a dozen.

So, a real job? Doing _what_?

"Poor baby." He says, and Erik has a brief look of confusion. "I had to drive her so far and now I'm driving her back with no rest."

"How old is your car?"

"Almost fifteen or so odd years old. Downright tin bucket, but she functions just fine. " Chris sighs. "But she's been getting old and I just hope she can make it all the way back. And more. Because I sure as hell can't afford a new car."

"I'm sure she'll do just fine."

Chris looks back at Erik and is surprised by him once again. The man is wearing what looks like a feeble attempt at an assuring smile, but a smile none the less.

"Hopefully."

"Anything else?" Lars calls out from the counter, and both respond in the negative. Chris is wondering whether to ask for Lars' number, so that he can call him up and talk to him for old time's sake. After all, he's probably going to end up with the same fate as the other man. Misery loves company.

Speaking of misery, he still wants a straight answer from Erik. Or at least a gist of what he is doing here. Because more often than not, Chris is just a little bit nosy.

"You said you were going down the road for the same reason as me."

Erik looks up from his coffee cup, whose leftover contents he has been examining.

"I believe I did."

"But I don't think two people can have the same experience. Just sayin'."

"Maybe not." It is Erik's turn to raise an eyebrow. Whatever hints of a smile that were on Erik's face have now completely disappeared. But Chris is curious and wants to know.

"So what did you mean?"

"Pardon?"

"You said you were going down the road for the same reason as me. What's the reason?"

There is a pause, pregnant, and a silence that lingers and it is clearer by the moment that the man sitting on the cushy seat across Chris is a total and absolute stranger, a stranger who listens but a stranger none the less. A stranger who will soak up his worries, but not divulge his own because Chris himself is a stranger.

Finally, Erik speaks.

"To get to St. Catharines."

The remainder of the time in the diner is finished in silence. When Chris goes to pay, Lars only charges him for breakfast. He says the guy that Chris came with paid at the beginning for both their coffees.

For the sake of old times, Lars knocks of ten percent off the final price and Chris smiles. He doesn't bother asking Lars for his number.


	5. 9:42

**09:42**

* * *

It's still raining, rather heavily now, and Chris is travelling at a lower speed. They're on another lesser travelled road, since Chris doesn't want to take a chance on the highway. As much as he loves his tin bucket, he doesn't have enough faith in her to survive the weather at normal speed.

Silence is no longer a surprise, but it still grates on Chris' nerves.

A _lot_.

He'd rather be riding alone in his car instead of having company in form of the stony blond. The silence is invasive, and Chris feels like even his _thoughts _are available to Erik to be analyzed and scrutinized. He wants to blast music, but every time he touches the volume knob, he gets a look of utter disdain, and his polite side leaves it along.

He has tried to make small talk with him but gave up forty five minutes in. Instead, he's settled with watching the blue tinted scenerey through constantly blurring widows. Large farms nestled between forests lining the road roll by, and frankly, Chris is bored.

It is when he scratches his stubble for the fifth time in a forty second span that Erik decides to speak again. He has been reading a road map with great intensity for the past fifteen minutes, and seems to have found something of interest.

"Hey," He says so quietly that Chris almost misses it. "How far are we away from here?"

Chris furrows his brow as Erik says the name of a city, trying to remember.

"Around four hours, give or take." He answers with a croak, voice slightly dry from going so long without any use. "Why?"

"Is it on the way?"

"Uh, yeah, I think."

Erik hums and looks at the map again. He then leans forward and reaches into his backpack, which has been resting on the floor of the passenger seat. After ruffling through it, humming again, and what Chris guesses is a sigh, Erik straightens back up.

"If it's possible," He begins, voice most polite. "I'd like to be dropped off there."

Chris drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He's curious about the sudden change from St. Catherines to that airport, but he's learned by now that he's not getting any sort of answers from Erik.

If anything, in four hours he'll have the car to himself and can vent to Olaf about the injustice that is life and the music business.

"Your wish."

"Thank you." Erik replies, voice still holding its politeness. "I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it." Chris shrugs. "It's not every day I help someone hop the country."

The comment was said in passing, but out of his peripheral vision Chris can see Erik visibly stiffening. It is a great feat, since the blond seems like he is built out of marble anyways.

"Hey, it was a joke..." Chris says, unsure of what tone of voice to take.

"I know." Erik replies, voice icy. "I just don't appreciate being blamed for stupid things like that."

Chris observes this shift from polite to cold, and deduces that Erik may be one of those people with a cool exterior and a fiery emotional interior. Due to this unstable balance, Chris assumes that pulling over and telling Erik that he can go find someone else to hitch a ride from is a good idea, in case he says the wrong thing and Erik grabs his steering wheel and drives them into a ditch.

He needs to return the collection of slasher flicks he has borrowed from Alfred.

As soon as he is willing to talk to the other man again.

"Sor_ry_." Chris says, his sarcasm leveling Erik's. He sees Erik frown at him, and realizes he has learned something new about the stranger. He doesn't like blame.

_That makes the two of us, kid._

"Whatever." Erik mumbles, drawing his bag onto his lap to search for something.

"Do you have your passport and money and all that?" Chris asks casually. "'Cause I'm not driving ya back to wherever you came from if you don't."

"I came prepared. Don't worry," Erik says, his voice steely. "When I leave, I _leave_."

Chris isn't the one to pick arguments with strangers (sober), so he says nothing.

For a whole two minutes.

"Yeah, so what did you _leave_ this time?"

"Do you ask strangers such personal questions all the time?"

"Well I don't drive them four hours to wherever all the time either." Then Chris adds. "Hell, I barely do that for my friends, and I actually _know_ them."

The mixture of silence and tension after that exchange can be sliced with a knife. Chris keeps his gaze determined and on the road, while Erik stares out of the window, expression blank. The tell-tale crease in his forehead indicates that Chris' words have not left his mind.

"You wouldn't do this for anyone you know?"

"Haven't so far."

Erik picks up on what Chris is inferring, and Chris can see Erik contemplating the hidden request. Chris wants to _know _about Erik, even if he's told only half the story.

"Fine." Erik lets out a sigh, and Chris thinks that he is finally going to learn something about the blond with the silver cross clipped into his hair.

Erik pulls the hood up of his rain jacket, and unbuckles his seat belt.

"Hey! What the fuck-" Chris mentally prepares himself in case Erik does what homicidal act he thinks he's about to do, but Erik cuts him out.

"Let me out." He says. "I'll hitch a ride from someone else. There's no point in you doing this for someone you don't know."

"What, why?" Chris asks, and Erik doesn't give an answer.

"Let me out." He repeats. "You don't do this for anyone you know, you don't do this for anyone you don't know. So don't do this for me."

Chris is about to say something, maybe in protest, but instead, nods. After all, it's Erik's choice if he wants to be out in the cold again.

"Your choice, kid."

Fifteen feet ahead, the car finally manages to come to a stop. Erik opens the door, getting out and slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"Thanks." He calls out through the loud tapping of the rain, and Chris flashes him a half hearted thumbs up and a "Nice meeting ya." The door is slammed shut with a force that makes Chris wince. Without looking at Erik, he begins to drive again, slowly. He checks his rear view mirror, and sees the silhouette of the man in the rain. The road is empty and the rain doesn't seem to ease up.

"Ain't no car for miles." He speaks to Olaf, who, if capable of speech, would have grunted in agreement. Instead, the stuffed viking sat there silently. "He's gonna be walking this way for hours."

Chris waits till Erik is about half an inch in height in the rear view mirror, before he pulls over to the shoulder of the road.

And waits.

* * *

Personally, I don't pick up hitchikers hahaha. This story is insanely fun to write.

And woo, there's fanart for this fic from Morrigan Fearn, go check it out |D

morriganfearn. deviantart art/ Looking-for-Clouds- 196748681

Reviews are appreciated :D


	6. 10:05

**10:05**

* * *

Chris is still waiting, and it's still raining. He's shifted his seat backwards, so he's more comfortable. Erik should be coming any moment now, when he sees there's no other car there to pick him up. Chris doesn't just want to leave a person, stranger or not, out in bad weather just because he and the person clashed a little.

But if Erik doesn't come in the next fifteen minutes, Chris is leaving him there.

For now, he's just going to sit in his car and wait, and ignore his cell phone buzzing. It's Arthur that's calling, which is a sufficient enough reason not to answer the phone at all. Him and the rest of his band (_the _band, Christ corrects himself, since it's not his anymore) have probably just woken up by now and have noticed him missing.

If any of them of them were in Erik's place right now, Chris would have probably kept on driving. But judging from what he knows about Erik's personality, he's sure the man will fit right in with the rest of the band. He sticks the key in the ignition.

Then again, if in the next week he reads an article about the body of a blond found in some obscure ditch by the road, Chris is sure that it won't be able to escape his conscience.

* * *

**10:18**

* * *

_Well damn._

He's turned off the phone, since it seems like his ex-band mates are desperate to get in contact with him. _Fuck them._

It's pouring, Erik's probably soaked to the bone, and Chris is still waiting for him. Erik is pacing in circles in the road, clutching the jacket around him tighter and tighter. Even summer rain chills to the bone, and the wind cheater isn't helping. Chris considers the possibility of doing a U-turn and offering Erik a ride again, but he decides that he's not going to swallow his pride twice in the span of twenty four hours. Erik knows he's there, since Chris isn't out of his visibility, so _he_ can come to him.

Or not, since he sees the silhouette of a small dark car come up the road. Erik raises a hand, trying to wave the car down.

The car just drives on by.

_Ha ha fucking ha._

* * *

**10:25**

* * *

The fifteen minute mark has passed, but Chris figures it can't hurt to wait a little longer. He's thinking about why he's waiting for someone he doesn't really get along with, but he figures that it's part of his personality. Maybe it's him being compassionate, or him just wanting to pick a fight and come out on top.

Even with a stranger.

He scratches his stubble thoughtfully.

* * *

**10:28**

* * *

_There we go._

Chris was right, and pats himself on the back mentally as he pulls his seat back up to the regular position.

Out of his rear view mirror, he can see Erik's figure walking quickly towards the car, as if he is in a rush, or is storming towards the car.

When Erik is close enough, Chris leans across to unlock the passenger door. When Erik is ten steps away, he rolls down the window of it too.

"I'm sorry." The man huffs and frowns, hair that hasn't been protected by the hood of his jacket plastered to his wet face. "I'll tell you."

"Don't worry about it, kid." Chris waves him off with a small grin, but has all intentions of listening to his story. He sticks the key into the ignition, and turns on the car. "Get in."

"It's because of me that my brother's dead."

With the grin still pasted across his face, Chris reaches over to roll the window back up so no more rain gets in. He keeps his eyes on Erik's face while he locks the car door, memorizing enough of Erik to be able to provide information for a detailed police sketch.

_Holy shit who have I been driving with, those movies which Alfred watch _are _real-_

Banging on the window interrupts his train of thought, and he blinks. Erik is saying something, but it's getting muffled. He is waving his hands, and Chris frowns. Then he can make out what sounds like a "I didn't mean it like _that_!"

He takes a chance, and rolls the window down an inch, enough for him to hear Erik, but not enough for Erik to potentially reach through and throttle him.

"I didn't mean that he's actually _dead_," Erik stresses. "He's cut off most ties with my family, and he's the reason I ran away from-"

He presses his lips together tightly, cutting himself off. Chris raises his eyebrows and says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Aren't you a little too old to be actually _running away_ from home?"

"I'm in college."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Chris contemplates whether or not to let Erik back in. The guy does have a rather interesting choice of words, and it's made him slightly wary. Who the hell uses "my brother is dead" as a way to explain that said brother has cut off family ties anyways?

Then again, Erik hasn't done anything remotely vicious towards him, other than talk him down, so Chris figures he's alright. Plus, the other man is shorter and scrawnier than he is, and unless he's hiding some secret martial arts skills underneath that drenched jacket, Chris also figures he can take the guy on if he tries anything.

"Get in." Chris unlocks the passenger door. Erik opens it, and Chris eyes him warily. Erik is dripping wet, and a red nose indicates that he's on the verge of a cold.

"Um...you're wet."

"I know." The reply is crisp, and Chris feels slightly stupid for pointing out the obvious.

"Do you have spare clothes?"

"Where am I going to change?"

"The backseat?"

Erik casts a glance to the back seat.

"Not while he's watching." He says, jabbing a finger in Olaf's direction.

It takes Chris a second, but then he realizes that _Holy shit this guy actually told a joke_. He gives a short laugh, and even Erik's lips turn upwards slightly.

"You're funny, kid." He says, reaching into the backseat, and grasping Olaf by the head. He pulls the large stuffed toy onto the passenger seat.

"I try."

The joke has slightly eased Chris' mind, enough to let Erik climb into the back seat.

"S'all yours now."

He unlocks the backseat door, and Erik slides in. Erik rustles around, and Chris keeps his gaze directed forward, glancing only occasionally up to the rear view mirror to make sure that Erik isn't about to whip out a previously concealed cleaver.

A couple of minutes of fumbling later, and Erik is done. Chris tosses Olaf back into the backseat and, not wanting to go back out in the rain, Erik maneuvers himself over onto the passenger seat with some effort.

"I left my bag in the backseat." He says. "I hope you don't mind."

"Nah." Chris shrugs. "Still want to go to the airport?"

Erik nods, and Chris wonders something for a moment.

"Why the switch from St. Catherines to the airport then? If you're going after your brother?"

Maybe he'll be able to pry some information from Erik after all. He feels like he sort of deserves it, having waited for him and everything. Even if he's pretty much forcing this small debt onto Erik.

He has that bad habit sometimes.

Erik looks slightly taken aback by the question, but from what Chris can tell, he's actually considering answering the question. Much like a gold fish, he opens his mouth and closes it many times, until he finally speaks.

"I suppose I do owe you an explanation, so you don't think you're riding around with a creep."

Maybe the guy's a mind reader.

* * *

Reviews are really appreciated :D


	7. 10:36

**10:36**

* * *

Chris always has the need to make his opinion heard and known and likes to make a commentary to just about everything, but this is Erik's story and Erik is a stranger so he tries to carry himself with some grace.

And patience, because Erik seems to be struggling to find where he should begin. Chris figures it can go two ways: Erik is either going to give him the bare minimum, enough to make Chris shut up but not enough for Chris to fully understand, or he's going to end up spilling the whole thing because Chris is a stranger and won't be telling anyone else anyways.

"You okay?" He asks over the squeaking of the windshield wipers. Erik shrugs. More silence follows and Chris thinks that Erik isn't going to follow through but Erik does.

"My brother's younger than me," he starts. "By two years. He's going into his second year of university."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He's majoring in one of the sciences. Good university too."

That would be what Chris would have majored in, had he decided to pursue higher education. That or maybe English, since he is always told he has quite a creative flair. He wonders if maybe going to a college or university will be a good way to kill time in between now and what he's sure will be a great musical comeback on his part.

"Our parents are really successful." Erik continues. "So they have great expectations. Wanting us to follow the same path. So they weren't too happy when they realized I wanted to do something in the arts."

"Mine weren't either," Chris says. "'Cept I didn't even go to college."

"I wasn't planning to either, actually." Erik replies, and sighs. "Thought it would be too boring, so I didn't feel like it. But I got a good scholarship so I figured I might as well. It had always been a really sore point for my parents. But I find education dismal and boring, so they were happy I was at least doing _something_. So all the hope and expectation had been dumped on to my brother."

Erik pauses and thinks. "He wasn't a very...He was slightly isolated from everyone else. In public he wouldn't acknowledge me as his brother and it took him some time to refer to our as parents as...well, our parents."

"I know how that feels." Chris snorts, vaguely remembering a vague ex-girlfriend who wouldn't want to tell anyone they were dating, lest some cuter person and opportunity came along and knew she wasn't available.

"He also had a..." This time Erik stops and seems to mull over what he wants to say.

"Y'know, if you don't want to tell me _everything_, you don't have to." Chris says, trying to not sound like his curiosity has spiked. "Ain't gonna effect me either ways anyways."

Erik hums. "Alright then, I guess. As I was saying, he was rather secluded so when all their attention shifted onto him, it was overwhelming for him. He wouldn't take my help though because he didn't want to 'burden' me, but he used to rely on some guy called Ivan.

"But that ended up falling out, mostly because of him. He was really paranoid, because the guy had a history of using people. He eventually broke off ties with him too, and had no one left except for his girlfriend. And things were growing tense between them too. He was going to break it off with her but she ended up..."

"Pregnant." Chris finishes for Erik. The blond gives him a questioning look and he shrugs. "It's the same story for every other dude."

Chris finds it slightly amusing how easily Erik is talking about his brother, and bets there's going to be more stutters and blank spaces when he ties himself into the story. It's also the most he's heard Erik talk so far, and it's rather interesting because a small flair of actual _emotion _is showing up in the other man's voice.

"I told him to stay with her, take responsibility. He said her brother would kill him. Seeing as he's an avid hunter, I had no doubt about that. But he ended up staying with her anyways. He wanted to go into art as well, but..." at this, Erik sighs. "She ended up miscarrying.

"There was all the pressure on him and that's why he's doing science now. We've been close but...he likes to blame it on me. For not living up to our parents' expectations, therefore transferring it onto him."

Chris blinks. _Well then_. He does not want to trivialize someone else's problems, but at the same time he wants to tell Erik that life can throw things that are much, _much_ worse than things like this.

"And that's what caused a huge rift between us. We didn't hate each other, but it did stir up something unhealthy. He stopped talking to me after a while, during the summer he graduated from high school."

It takes a lot to listen and not to openly criticize, Chris finds out as Erik continues to narrate his story. He's never been good at lending a sympathetic ear, and he's probably worse with giving it to what seems like a rich kid with an easy life who suddenly had to put in some effort.

Then again, maybe he is just automatically belittling everything because he is still most definitely pissed over the whole band situation. It'll probably take him a week, a month, a year, or ten, to get over it. He chooses not to tell Erik that he's not lost one, but three other brothers just the other day.

Though after what they did, maybe he's going to have to stop considering them as brothers.

He shakes his head slightly, realizing he has zoned out of the conversation.

"Wanna repeat?"

Erik gives him a slightly irritated look at being interrupted. Chris will never really know if Erik actually picked up from where he left off or went on irregardless, but he decides to assume the best of Erik and thinks that he chose to do the former.

"It eventually lead to him cutting off ties with our parents half way through first year, and he moved into a flat. And before the end of it, he stopped talking to me as well."

"Harsh, man."

"Yeah. And then...some other things also happened between us."

"...Am I going to get to hear about that?"

"No." Erik replies, but his voice isn't as crisp and cool as before. Chris is still curious, but it's been quelled slightly. He doesn't really know what to think about what Erik has been saying, which so far does not seem worthy of the metaphor that he had murdered his brother.

But to each their own, right?

"Things led to things, and eventually, things led to me getting into a fight with my parents as well. So I packed up and left, and I wanted to go to St. Catherines to stay with some friends. But I want to go to...where my brother is staying. That's why I wanted to go to the airport."

The end. That's Erik's story. Or at least, as much as he's willing to tell Chris. What strikes Chris the most is that it seems so... normal. Erik hasn't killed any one, he hasn't run away to elope, he has not impregnated anyone (his brother did but he doesn't count) and after all this is over, he will probably go back to his parents or just move out and live on his own and have a normal life.

"You know," Erik speaks up, interrupting Chris' train of thought. "It's easier talking about this with a stranger."

Chris looks at Erik briefly, and sees the blond has relaxed back into the seat and has closed his eyes. He still has that small line of worry (or irritation, or frustration) on his forehead, as if he's not completely at ease.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You don't have to worry about them telling anyone all your secrets. Or care if they judge you."

"Ain't that the truth." Chris gives a short barking laugh.

This time when they lapse into silence, it's of a different kind. It's not as obtrusive as before, but something else has settled in. Chris can't tell whether it's positive or not but at least now he knows Erik's story.

At least now he's not driving a complete stranger.

* * *

Reviews are really appreciated :D


	8. 12:45

**12:45**

* * *

Two hours of driving with the radio being the only thing making noise in the car has made Chris almost forget that Erik's in the car. The curiosity he held before has slightly dulled, because Erik's problem seems so... common. And it does not seem like Erik's problem; it seems like his brother's problem that he was just thrown into. He feels bad for the kid, and he feels bad for belittling it, but he can't help it. Chris has gone back to thinking about his own problems, and has been so immersed in thought that when Erik speaks it startles him and the car jerks a little.

"'m sorry," Chris says as he blinks back into the present. "What did ya say? Spaced out for a second."

"Are we planning on lunch?"

Chris ponders for a second. He _does _have a bag of chips in his back seat that's been sitting there since he got arrested for beating up someone while drunk...but how long ago was that? Oh right, not too long ago. But how long had it been sitting in his dingy apartment before it traveled into Chris' car.

"Sure." He replies, looking at the car clock. "Whenever the next diner comes up, I s'ppose."

He tries to remember how much money he has in his wallet. "You got money?"

Erik shrugs. "I guess."

Ten or so minutes later, another large green sign passes by, letting drivers know that there is a gas station and rest stop with some fast food joints five kilometers ahead.

Based on his story, Chris is sure that Erik probably has a decent amount of money and wonders if the man will lend him a helping hand lest he fall a few dollars short of a decent meal.

* * *

Compared to the dingy diner where they stopped at first, this small building that houses the fast food joint is well lit and is bustling with tourists and travellers. After a rather uneventul and relatively quiet ten minutes in line ordering and buying food, they find a red table in a corner beside a loud family with three teenage kids.

One of them is an older girl, who gives Chris a once over when her parents aren't looking and he tries to pointedly look away because it would get rather uncomfortable rather fast. They set down their trays and take seats opposite from each other.

"This used to be my drummer's favourite food joint." Chris comments, ripping apart the foil around his burger. "Used to keep a couple of these in his bass drum and after the show, he'd take them out and heat them up."

"Disgusting." Erik crinkles his nose but Chris can tell by the way his eyes slightly crease that the other man finds it humorous.

"He said it gave him motive to perform. That and maybe some of his special mix."

"Special mix?" Erik raises his eyebrow.

"Don't ask me." Chris shrugs. "He wouldn't tell anyone what was in it. Made him hyper as fuck on stage though."

Erik hums, contemplative. "What kind of music did you play?"

"Uh..." Chris thinks for a moment. Arthur said that sticking a band in a genre was a form of conformity, but it was coming from a guy who always sided with The Man. "Alternative... I think that's what we sell ourselves under."

"Interesting."

"Very."

Erik seems to mull over another question, and Chris is struck with an idea out of the blue. On the scale of personal information that has been divulged, Chris is definitely outweighing Erik. That probably can't be reversed, but nonetheless, Chris wants to mess around with Erik and give him the same type of cryptic answers that he has been recieving. Another thing people underestimate about Chris is his ability to remember and repay the favour, whether it be now or a few years down the road.

"Were you guys popular?"

Then again, Erik has this habit of being much more blunt than him.

"What kind of car did we drive here in?" he replies, small grin present. He doesn't let it get too wide, and hopes it looks as forced as it feels.

Erik plays with his fries and Chris taps his foot in time with the song on the radio floating through the restaraunt.

"It must be nice, playing in a band." Erik muses. "Get to see a lot of places, meet a lot of people."

"It's decent. " Chris says, taking a swig out of his drink.

"Are you going to give it up?"

Initially, the response has always been a resounding no in Chris' head. But in the hours of silence while driving, he had done some serious thinking and now he's not quite sure on the answer.

He supposes that in this day and age, a highschool diploma alone won't cut it. He supposes that either college or university will be a sensible choice, and he can get a sensible job with sensible pay so he can live a sensible life. Somewhere along the way he can meet a sensible person and there'll be that one little spark that'll give offer him some variety until they decide on the more sensible arrangement of living together and co-ordinating their schedules.

Somewhere along the way he'll retire, and then that'll be it. The end Game over. C'est fini, like that French acquaintance of Arthur's likes to say with enthusiasm at the end of each show that he emcee's for.

And somehow Chris does not seem to like the idea of having stability for the rest of his life. Maybe it's vital for his survival, but he doesn't want to fall into what is considered the norm.

So then what?

He supposes he can fill in with different bands when the need arises. He can start a new project altogether, maybe in a new genre all together and with new people all together.

But it had been hard enough getting along with people he already knew in a creative environment. He doesn't know if there is anyone else that can put up with him. Admittedly he is stubborn and likes to get his way but hey, it's just him being what his elementary school teacher would call a "leader." Too bad that in his (now old) band, everyone is a leader.

He wonders if now that he's gone, everyone else will start to clash more. He wasn't a mediator per se, but he (and Gilbert) are usually the first to declare that everyone should chill the fuck out and grab some beer.

_They're not going to last without me_.

He's still confident in saying that. Because their band is filled with so much wrong it's right and kicking him out upsets that delicate balance.

His brain is running a mile a minute, when Erik clears his throat softly.

"Oh, sorry. What did you say?"

Erik casts Chris a look that he cannot quite place. It's not a look of irritation like he has received quite a few times in the past few hours.

"Are you going to give it up?" He repeats as he studies Chris' face intently with those dull blue eyes.

"Who knows?" Chris answers, voice monotonous as he takes another sip.

* * *

I actually don't know how burgers would sound in bass drums. I know how chips and candybars sound hahaha

since it was asked a bit, I'll just address it here: yeah Ice's girlfriend was Lichtenstein

reviews are really appreciated!


	9. 15:28

Oh man, we're at the finish line already? I'd like to keep on writing this, but eventually the car will run out of gas and Denmark will run out of gas money. This fic's been quite the experience since it's different from what I've done in fanfiction before and I've liked writing it a lot. Thanks for all the support, it was very lovely! The airport is fictional, by the way, like the diner.

Reviews are really appreciated, and thank you so much for sticking through with the whole thing (: /casually drives off into sunset

And so without further ado...

* * *

**15:28**

* * *

Driving into a city-like area feels jarring after such a long stretch of highways and roads winding through acres and acres of farmland and forests. The clear break in the weather did not last long, and rain has been going on for a good fifteen minutes.

_Pathetic fallacy._

But he's wondering if that applies anymore. He's not been dwelling on his raw anger as much anymore. It's still there, but it's been subdued to make way for questions bigger than what kind of revenge to take on his ex band-mates.

What he's going to do for the rest of his life is one of them.

It's been a dream to make music his livelihood and he has previously taken comfort in the fact that if he's stupid enough to go after such a big gamble, at least he has three other guys following him. But good things don't always come to those who work hard for it and just because he's had fucking _visions_ about using his talent to make it big doesn't mean it will actually happen.

Remorse starts to take over anger, because he feels like he's wasted away a good portion of his life playing dirty bars and sharing a cup of noodles for dinner with a few other people instead of getting an education that would secure his future and hazing freshmen.

It's bad that he feels so old and without options, even though he hasn't reached his mid-twenties yet. He just doesn't want to end up looking like Lars, who looks like he's been through too much for too long.

And every day he's woken up, knowing exactly what he's supposed to do. But when he wakes up tomorrow morning, or the afternoon depending or whether or not he decides to drink himself into a stupor, he will be clouded with insecurity.

The airport is around twenty minutes away now, and Chris supposes it will be his last twenty minutes with someone who he now supposes he can call somewhat of an acquaintance, if not a friend. Judging by Erik's character, it will most likely be the former.

Conversation between him and Erik has been there, even if it's been sparse. Now that he knows a little about Erik, the silence doesn't seem as invasive as before. They roll along the road to fuzzy Radiohead coming out of the car radio and Chris feels like they have been driving forever.

He decides to make the best of it and try for one last continuous conversation before they part ways.

"Don't you think it's odd?" he starts after a thorough minute of searching in his head for a conversation topic. "We don't know each other and we've probably told each other more than we've told anyone else."

Really, the only reason that applies to Chris is because Erik's been the only one he's had to talk to for the fresh first hours he's spent after being kicked out of his band.

"You think so?" Erik asks, voice near monotonous as he watches the suburbs start to roll by. "I found it easier to talk to someone I don't know."

Chris wants to point out that compared to himself, Erik hasn't talked very much, but bites his tongue on that judgement because maybe Erik's said much more than what is the norm for him.

"Maybe we're not strangers anymore." he suggests.

"We haven't known each other long enough to be friends." Erik says, and Chris shrugs off the bluntness with his own.

"Never said that's what we were." he says simply. "Acquaintances, I was thinking."

"You thought wr-" Erik catches himself, and Chris raises an eyebrow because this man was just recently talking to him about things his brother and him would do when they went up to the cottage. This yo-yo'ing of moods has gone from being slightly curious to slightly annoying a long time ago, and Chris covers his irritation with a gritted grin.

"I suppose I did." Chris says. "Hey, at least I'm not making you pay for half the gas."

"...I can if you want me to."

Chris wait till he makes a left turn at a crowded intersection to answer.

"Nope." Chris shakes his head. "What goes around comes around. Hopefully this leads to me being able to cut a break."

In music, maybe. In life, definitely.

"I hope you do."

Chris finds this phrase familiar; pretty sure it's the same words his mother said to him when, at the age of eighteen, he told her he was going to ditch post-secondary education in favour of touring the world and making it big.

"So where are ya flying down to?" Chris asks casually, steering the conversation away from the uncomfortable.

"The east coast." Erik replies, and Chris is not going to ask for additional information if it's not readily given. As bad as he wants to know _where_ on the east coast.

"Beautiful place." He hums and makes the general comment, with lack of anything better to say.

"Do you have a card?" Erik asks suddenly and Chris blinks and looks at him for a second. "Like a business card or something?"

"Plannin' to do some lines before you fly off?"

Chris sees a glint of the sour look he received out of his peripheral vision, and gestures to his glove compartment. Erik silently opens the box and rummages, finally taking out the cleanest card he can find, a business card for a local Chinese restaurant under the management of one Yao Wang. It's from when Chris is looking for jobs in between (_sad excuses for_) tours, and he regularly goes to be a waiter or a deliveryman to gain some cash for living.

Erik does nothing afterwards; just flips the card over and over again in his hands, looking extremely pensive. Chris just assumes Erik is bored out of his mind and needs something to do other than make decent conversation with the man who's driven him for a few hours now.

Chris thinks he needs to sidle his anger over the band and not take it out on Erik, because now is as good as any a time to stop being his stubborn and admittedly slightly obnoxious self. He's been telling himself this for quite a while now, but maybe meeting a person out of the blue is the exact type of thing to start the ball rolling on that change.

The airport seems to arrive pretty soon, and before Chris knows it, he's pulling up in the passenger drop-off zone. The area is crowded, and seeing so many people bustling around makes Chris realize that for the past few hours he's felt detached from the world and large crowds are bringing him back to reality.

And maybe the fact that now it's time for Erik to leave is part of it as well. Because Chris knows that in the future, if he thinks back on the day he was kicked out of his precious band, he'll remember the silent blond he spent a long car ride with just mere hours after the event.

"Well..." Chris doesn't know what to do. Offer to walk him inside the building? Give him a goodbye hug, slap him on the back and tell him he'll see him around? "I suppose this is it."

"Appears so." Erik says, and he's going through his bag again. Thirty seconds of quiet mumbling and searching later, he fishes out a black pen.

"This," Erik says, as he scrawls numbers onto the back of the card. "Is a number. I'm not going to tell you which number it is, but if you call, I will pick up."

Chris gives a bemused look, as Erik hands him the card. "Maybe I can pay you back one day."

Maybe they'll become friends. Because that's exactly what this opening the door to.

"Thanks." He replies, looking at the digits. The area code seems familiar, so it seems legitimate enough. It surprises him that Erik does this, but he supposes that Erik is thinking along the same lines as him; if you've travelled around nine hours with a stranger without them taking you into a forest and killing you then there's a potential for friendship.

Erik shuffles around a bit more, gathering himself to go out. Knowing he has Erik's number places Chris at some sort of odd peace; he is suddenly thinking that maybe a blunt but _quiet_ friend is just what he needs.

"Sorry for being a burden for so long." Erik replies honestly while he pulls the hood of his jacket up to shield himself from the rain, and Chris waves it off, even though an apology has been the last thing he's been expecting from Erik.

"No problem, kid. You take care then." There's not much else they can say to each other.

Erik's mouth twitches and Chris thinks he's about to say something, but the blond's lips curl upwards.

There is something strange in Erik's expression. The small smile seems genuine, which slightly bothers Chris. And him and his observational skills are damned if that look isn't a sincerely apologetic one.

He steps out of the car and grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He stands with the door open for a second, then bends down slightly so that his face is at level with Chris'.

"Thanks." he says, and it's barely audible to Chris.

And with that, Erik has shut the door of the car and has disappeared into the large main building, effectively walking out of Chris' life as silently as he walked in.

For now, because Chris has his number and Chris thinks that he should actually give him a ring later down the road, maybe when he's reached home. Erik is not as loud and obnoxious as the rest of his friends, so maybe Chris can start a collection of _decent_ friends with him. End of one chapter, start of another.

Chris is about to pull out his wallet to stow away the card, but something at the foot of the passenger's seat catches his eye. It shines and Chris leans over to pick it up and look at it. It seems to be a driver's license, and has probably fallen out of Erik's wallet while he was fumbling around. Chris easily recognizes the blond hair and the blank, dull, and slightly bored stare given by dark blue eyes. Even that little odd curl that sticks out to the side from the nape of Erik's neck (a detail he has forgotten to ask about, but plans to in the future) is there. He is about to get out of his car and run down Erik to give it to him, when his eye catches something.

It's what he doesn't recognize that unnerves him; it's a tiny detail he almost over looks.

_Jakob Davidsen_

It takes a second for the shock to come, but when it does, it sucker punches him right in the gut.

A bitter taste is forming in his mouth and he sees the date of birth. Quick mental math tells him that Jakob is the fresh age of eighteen. And is no doubt Erik in this photo; hell, he's even wearing the same shirt in the license. But the name...the name is not the same. Neither is the age.

_Jakob Davidsen...All of eighteen years old_

Chris stares, because he can't think of anything else to do. Is he jumping to conclusions? What if it was his brother and he had just taken his ID? Why was Chris thinking this, even when Erik himself has told that his brother looks much different than he does.

_Because he never stopped being a stranger and you drove him all this way anyways_

The rain is tapping against the window, as if telling him to hurry up. More literate are the cars waiting behind him for his spot. Chris can't bring himself to move; he doesn't know whether or not to feel betrayed that Erik (_Jakob_) lied to him. But why should he be feeling betrayed?

_Because they were right and you are emotionally unstable and a stranger getting the best of you like this just proves that._

They were never friends in the first place, just strangers that crossed paths. Strangers that unloaded their burdens on each other, even if minimally in both length and truth. Chris finds himself wondering the extent of which Erik because that's who he'll always be to Chris has fabricated his story. He also finds a part of him saying that Erik is the little brother in his story, and no older brother figure exists- and if he does, he's certainly not Erik.

Cheated. Yes, cheated would be the word. Nine hours, and he wasn't given any truth whatsoever (as is his assumption) and he doesn't know whether to blame Erik for deceiving him or himself for actually expecting to be told the truth. After all, why would Erik (_and it would always be Erik because even after this, the name Jakob seems too foreign_) tell anything to him? They aren't significant in each others lives.

And Chris still can't help but feel a bit hurt. All this talk of Erik being comfortable enough around him to share at least a sliver of information seems to have had settled in more than he previously realized. Maybe if it was an ordinary day, Chris would not have been that affected. After all, how many times has he given a fake name at the bar?

But he hates this. Maybe it's because this is the second time within a span of two days he has been told a significant lie.

_"It's not completely you, mate, it's us too."_

_"You can call me Erik."_

Chris is sure that his presumptions of Erik being a runaway, not an upset college kid, is completely true. The familiar sense of curiosity sets in as he leans his head back against the head rest, and this time it blends in with slight guilt that he's probably helped some kid escape and there are good people wondering where the hell _Jakob Davidsen _has gone.

There he goes, assuming again. Maybe Erik has had a good reason to change his name, to run away, to hitch a ride from him to the airport.

Yeah, smoking would be just a _lovely _habit to pick up, right beside his love for drinking and riding bicycles and reading fine literature.

In the middle of his thoughts, he realizes something is cutting into the skin of his palm. It's the business card with the number scrawled onto the back.

First, he wants to just toss it out the window. Erik was probably not telling him the truth.

Then he remembers the honest look that Erik gave him, and because of that, because of that one stupid look, he decides to keep the number. Because maybe Erik hasn't lied. It can never hurt to try, and Chris wants to put a little bit of faith into those ten digits.

Anyways, he has Erik's license. He'll need to call him to return it to him because he doesn't think that going in right now to give it to him in person will be a good idea. He tucks the card and the license into his wallet, and he tucks his wallet into his pocket.

He turns the ignition, much to the relief of the car that's been waiting patiently for his spot, and gives one look towards the airport. Too many people to see if Erik's suddenly realized he's lost something and decided to run back to get it.

Smoking while driving's outlawed in the province, but Chris fishes a cigarette out from the barely used pack. He lowers his windows slightly, enough to make sure the scent doesn't get too overpowering but not so much that he's barreled with rain and the smoke dies out.

And that's the only company he keeps all the way back to St. Catherines.

* * *

**fin**


End file.
